He pulls his hands into his lap, still alert, still not really able to relax, but at least he's not so on edge anymore. It's 'just Zemo'. Famous last words, maybe.

"There's no reception out here." As if that's the main thing stopping him from calling this in. He just-- doesn't want to be found, either. Doesn't want to be bothered. Doesn't want any trouble, like he said. As soon as those people find out he's living here, they're going to want to stage an intervention, make him move somewhere with people, help integrate him into society even though he will always feel like he's a potential danger to everyone around him. If he lives here long enough, this place could be a cell to rot in for eternity, for someone like Zemo. Bucky of course doesn't seem to mind dying here. At least everyone else is safe from him.

"I don't use the bedroom." So that's a yes, even though he doesn't directly answer Zemo's question. His clothes are piled up in a messy heap in the living room, and the bathroom opposite from the bedroom is stocked, so at least there's some self-care happening, however minimal it might be. There's a big dog bed in the corner by the kitchen door where his favourite girl sleeps. It looks much more comfortable and welcoming than Bucky's corner, of just a sheet on the floorboards and sometimes a cushion.

"Just a few days. And then you'll go." And leave him and his floor alone.